


Greater Love

by Nabielka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Marauders' Era, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an attempt to stop Voldemort backfires, Hermione finds herself at Hogwarts during the Marauders’ last year. Posing as Dumbledore’s grand-niece, she must find a way to bring down Voldemort before he reaches the height of his power, in order to save the lives of her future friends. Time travel AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Does not follow DH canon.  
> This is temporarily marked 'Gen' and has no pairings. This may change later on.  
> Constructive criticism is welcome.

_Greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends._ (John 15:13)

The first time round, she had been excited, one hand kept in the pocket of her new robe, clutched around her wand and frantically trying to remember the spells she had memorised just in case, staring at the sky ceiling with wonder, impatient to begin her education. 

This time, however, she had bigger fish to fly. 

Still, she thought, looking around, it felt good to be back at Hogwarts - a Hogwarts which had not yet been destroyed, which would never be destroyed if she succeeded. And yet, it had already gone wrong: the Time Turner, especially altered by Professor Dumbledore to transport the remnants of the Order into Riddle’s youth had not worked properly. Instead, it had taken her only as far as 1977, at the beginning of Voldemort’s first reign of terror, and left all the others behind to almost certain death.

She shook her head to clear it, for there was nothing she could do now but to try her best with the chance she had been given. 

Despite all of her adventures in this building with Harry and Ron during their tumultuous years here, this was not a corridor in which Hermione had ever been. It was narrower than the general ones used by the students, and served, as she had only recently discovered, as a passageway between the Great Hall and the professors’ chambers, where for Hermione herself had slept for the past few days. 

Through the little door in front of her, she could hear the occasional shout of the Sorting Hat, followed by muffled clapping. Eventually it subsided, followed by Dumbledore’s voice, scarcely louder than a murmur through the thick iron. 

She straightened then, and smoothed a hand over her hair, tucking strands of it behind her ears. Over the years, it had become somewhat less frizzy, but it would always be burdensome. Then she ran her hands across her robes to remove any specks of dirt, though she was perfectly well aware that there weren’t any, and finally admitted to herself that she was nervous.

Hermione despised having to wait. 

This had been true from an early age, when back at her primary school, she would fidget in her seat as the teacher took the register, sneaking longing glances at the books she wasn’t allowed to open, and hope that for once, they would tell her something she hadn’t read about already. Later, during the war years, she had found the hours before a plan could be carried out the most frustrating, for while she was fighting, she could depend on her magical ability and her brilliant memory, but in those agonising hours beforehand, she was left at the mercy of her mind, invariably reminding her of the many things which could go wrong. 

But her life from now on would have to be a state of prolonged battle, though not always the sort that she could fight with spells. She told herself that his had been true since Dumbledore had died, but it wasn’t the same. Previously, she had at least had people she could trust and depend on, and besides, other than brief arguments, when conflict arose, it ultimately ended up in a clash of wands. Here, where Hermione knew of people only what they might later become, she was alone.

Then the door opened, startling her out of her thoughts, and Hermione Granger took a deep breath and stepped through into the Great Hall.

It was just as she had remembered it, and for a minute she almost halted in her steps, caught up in the memories. 

There, the closest to her, was the Slytherin table, draped coolly in green and grey, and the distaste that she felt was habitual. It was hard to remember that some Slytherins had fought alongside and in the Order, and all too easy to remember that the majority of Death Eaters had hailed from there. 

She had not time to dwell on the thought, though, for her gaze was inevitably drawn to the other side of the room, where the Gryffindor Table, where she had eaten three meals a day almost every day for six years, reading and writing and talking with her friends, was positioned. It would hurt, she thought, to sit there without them, but still, the thought of being in the common room and sleeping in the Tower in a red poster-bed again pleased her. 

She was so caught up in her thoughts that it was only when she found herself standing next to Professor McGonagall that she became aware that she had reached the stool. The older woman gave her a slight smile, and once she had sat down, laid the Sorting Hat on her head. 

The rim of it had scarcely dropped over her eyes when she heard its small voice in her ear. 

It sounded delighted, “Hmm, a time traveller! Haven’t had one in centuries. Put you into Gryffindor before.”

Despite herself, Hermione felt herself nod. The Hat ignored it, although she must have jostled it. 

“Hmm. Plenty of courage, yes, it’s certainly served you well. But you prize it not for itself, but because you have needed it to survive. Fine mind too, oh, yes, there’s lots stuffed in here. Glad you’re my last one this year; most eleven year olds would seem boring in comparison. But not Ravenclaw, I think. You’ve started learning more for safety than for pure enjoyment, and the atmosphere of the Tower would not suit you anymore. Ah, interesting. Very interesting. Very loyal to a certain few; you’d do anything if you think that it’ll protect them.”

Hermione found herself frowning. If not Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, which she had always considered second best, if a close one, then – she could not prevent herself from gasping. Surely the Hat would not – 

But it certainly seemed so, for the Hat continued, “My goodness, your own parents! Hmm. The end justifies the means, yes? Such determination and beliefs would serve you well in – 

And then the Hat seemed to move atop her head and it shouted for the entire Hall to hear, “SLYTHERIN!”

The applause from that table seemed almost hesitant; the other houses remained still. 

Almost on automaton, Hermione moved her hand up to grasp the hat and lifted it off her head. The material was soft, and, though it looked dirty, when she had laid it on the stool, her hands were not stained. The thought made her think of her mother, who had complained so often of the wizarding world’s dedication to quills, and bemoaned the ink on her daughter’s fingers. 

But her mother was gone, and she could not afford to think of her. 

At the Head Table, Dumbledore’s face was impassive, and his eyes were fixed on her. She wanted to somehow communicate to him that she had not lied, that the Hat had changed its mind, but she did not dare to lower her mental shields. On his left, Professor Slughorn was positively beaming. 

The walk to the Slytherin table, back the way she had come from, seemed to take longer than it had in the other direction. Part of that, she thought, was due to the fact that the stares, far from abating, had in fact intensified after the proclamation. 

As she drew closer, Hermione became aware of the fact that the Slytherins against the wall were shuffling slightly towards the back of the hall, so that a seat was created for her at the end of the bench. She resisted the urge to sink down thankfully; this was not the Gryffindor table, where such lounging was commonplace, and it was not her Hogwarts. 

Instead, she sat down, as primly as she could manage, and kept her back very straight. As she did so, Dumbledore clapped his hands once, and food appeared on the dishes in front of them. 

Fighting the urge to look over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione helped herself to rice and some beef stroganoff, and couldn’t help but smile, for there was nothing quite like Hogwarts food. 

Then she could saw movement in her peripheral vision, and, out of instinct built up over the previous year, her head snapped up, and her hand flew to her pocket. It was only then that she realised that though the boy sitting across the table was holding his wand out, he was in fact making no move to attack her. 

She offered him a sheepish smile, and hoped that they wouldn’t question her. As she did so, she noticed that he looked very familiar indeed. 

“Shall I spell your robes for you?” he asked, wand poised to do so. 

Hermione stared at him. 

Sirius had been a Gryffindor, of course, so this would have to be Regulus, the R.A.B of the false locket. 

His hair was black and curled around his face in sight waves, and his eyes were a cool grey. He was not as good-looking as his brother had been once; the angles of his face were perhaps too sharp for him to be called handsome by most, but there was something about him that drew the eye. 

Lavender Brown may have said that it was his tragic fate, and once upon a time Hermione might have scoffed, but Lavender had given her life to save Hermione, and she could not bring herself to disregard that. 

“What do you mean?”

Besides, since Regulus had eventually turned against Voldemort, she thought that it might be possible to stop him from ever joining him in the first place, were he to see what it truly meant to be a Death Eater before it was too late. It was people like that she would need, for the less soldiers the other side had, the easier it must be. 

“The House sigil,” he said, gesturing at her chest. 

Hermione looked down, and remembered that indeed there was only black fabric where she had been accustomed to see the Gryffindor sign. It had never occurred to her to wonder how her previous school robes had gained their sigil; she supposed that somewhere at the back of her mind, she had simply ascribed it to magic, and instead concentrated on more important things.

“Oh of course, that’s very kind.” It was only then that Hermione realised that her hand was still curled around her wand. Embarrassed, she removed it, and resumed eating.

But Regulus Black shook his head. “It’s school policy; I’m surprised your uncle didn’t tell you.” He waved his wand, and Hermione looked down to see the Slytherin snake displayed on her robes.

“It has the additional benefit of making us easier targets for the Gryffindors,” said a dry voice to Regulus’ left, and Hermione turned to see a young Severus Snape.

He would not age visibly over the years: his face was smoother and his hair a little shorter, but any of his students would have known him at once. 

“The Gryffindors? Really?”

“I suppose Dumbledore would have portrayed them as the guardians of the Light.” 

She made herself frown, for a girl who had never been to Hogwarts would not have heard anything negative about the House usually known for its valour, especially since Dumbledore, her supposed great-uncle, was commonly supposed to have been a member. “I was aware that the Gryffindor and Slytherin students usually don’t get on,” she said, “but surely they can’t all be that bad?”

Snape scoffed. Regulus grimaced.

“The younger years usually stay out of the way,” he said, “but there are a couple in your year who go out of their way to target us. You’ll soon see what I mean.” He ate a mouthful, and then seemed to startle. “I do apologise, I quite forgot. I’m Regulus Black, and this here is Severus Snape.”

“Hermione Granger.”

She had been somewhat uneasy about keeping her original name, but Dumbledore had been adamant that her presence here, if she were to be successful, would delete from existence her younger self, and that therefore, there was no reason to spent the rest of her life living under an alias. 

“We had heard,” said the girl next to Hermione. She was so pale that her skin seemed almost translucent, and made her blue eyes stand out. “Dumbledore announced it right before you came in. I’m Camelia Parkinson.”

The penchant for flower names, Hermione thought, must be a family thing, like astronomical names for the Blacks. They shook hands. 

“What did he say?”

“That you were his niece, and that your school had been destroyed and he was now your guardian, and that he was sure Hogwarts would show you appropriate hospitality,” Camelia said, raising her goblet. “The interesting thing was that the only family Dumbledore was previously known to have was that brother in Hogsmeade.” She grimaced, as if lack of association was obvious. 

“My grandmother was a cousin of his,” said Hermione to her, and then, feeling it unlikely that people other than the Marauders had been pestering Snape, said, “Who are the ones who target you?”

“Us,” said Camelia sharply. “You’re a Slytherin now.”

“Give her time,” said Regulus. “She’s only been one for a few minutes; you wouldn’t expect the first years to consider themselves Slytherins yet.”

Camelia bristled, shooting him a curious look. “Most of them are from families which have been ours for years. I certainly would.”

Regulus inclined his head, and turned back to Hermione. “They call themselves the Marauders. It’s a misnomer: they don’t steal from us, but they do what they choose to call pranking. It’s largely composed of trying to humiliate us, though they seem to have a special loathing for Severus.” He turned sideways, and looked, tilting his head slightly, a frown forming on his face. “I can’t see them. This can’t be good.”

“Surely you ought to be glad of their absence?” Hermione said, for she couldn’t conceive of missing Malfoy, though perhaps Harry would, always suspicious of the other.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew them,” said Snape – she couldn’t think of him using his given name. “Most Gryffindors protect them, even the better ones. You’ll soon learn that.”

“Are we not to hear more about how Evans is the one exception, Snape?” Camelia said, raising her eyebrows. 

A flush spread across Snape’s sallow face, but he didn’t reply.

Harry’s mother¸ Hermione realised, then, because it was something a new student might know, asked, “The Head Girl?”

“She used to be his friend,” said Camelia, indicating Snape with her chin. She looked over at the Gryffindor table, and after a minute, pointed with her fork. “She’s Gryffindor prefect: does her job better than some, but not well enough.”

Hermione looked over, glad to be sitting with her back to the wall, so that it would not be obvious at whom the new girl was looking. The girl Camelia had indicated was not facing her, so all that Hermione could see of her was the long dark red hair cascading down her back. From the position of her head, it looked as though she were laughing.

“What do you mean?” 

Camelia looked over at Snape, who looked at his plate. Neither of them answered. 

Finally, Regulus said, in a deliberately casual voice, “If she’s around, she intervenes to stop them, but tends to be more occupied with arguing with Potter than actually helping.”

“Oh!” said Hermione, with an air of sudden realisation, for this also was knowledge that she could attribute to Dumbledore. “James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and – ” she pretended to hesitate, for too much might make them suspicious. There was little reason for her to know about the students, after all. “I’ve forgotten the last one.”

“People usually do,” said Regulus. “Dumbledore told you?”

She nodded. “He said they were trouble makers.”

She had barely had time to say this when the doors swung open with a clang, and the four silhouettes were visible. Simultaneously, all of the food on the plates of the Slytherins exploded. 

Hermione closed her eyes and flung herself against the wall, but she was too late, and felt something strike her cheek and something else the top of her head. 

Then she felt something tug at her arm, and flung it to the side on instinct.

“Ow!” came a female voice – Camelia’s. “Think before you react.”

Hermione opened her eyes, and remembered where she was: the Great Hall, not fighting a war at all. “Sorry.”

Camelia stared at her, then shook her head. “No, I suppose it’s fine. You’re not used to them. Anyway, it’s over now.”

Hermione sat back upright, raising a hand up to her face. It came away wet with source. 

“I’ll do you if you do me,” she said, lifting her wand, but Hermione only stared at her blankly. 

Camelia sighed, and spelled both herself and Hermione clean, then stepped closer to look at her more closely. “You’ve got rice in your hair. Hold still.”

As Camelia picked the rice out of her hair, Hermione let her gaze go back to the Gryffindor table. At the edge closer to the doors, four boys were clearly celebrating, though she was too far away to make out their expressions. To her dismay, she could see that more than a few of the Gryffindors were laughing, though at least Lily Evans had stopped. 

She was relieved, however, to see Professor McGonagall bearing down on them. At least something was still the same. 

And yet, she was sure that the Gryffindors of her time had not acted like that. Admittedly, some of them could be casually cruel: Fred and George had booed once at the first Slytherin sorting of the year, and had shoved Montague into a broken vanishing cabinet, but the latter at least had been caused by the other’s actions during Umbridge’s regime. And Hermione herself had cursed the parchment and not told anybody. 

The end justifies the means, the Sorting Hat had said, and yet it had not seemed supportive. But that had not been casual, for after Umbridge’s decree, they might even have been expelled, and Hermione, like all true Gryffindors, abhorred traitors. And being expelled, though not worse than death as she had once thought, was not much better, especially before the O.W.L.s. 

Still, she would have felt better about it if she had informed them beforehand. But the past was behind her, she thought, and yet it wasn’t: the past was the present, the past was now the future, the whole reason she was doing this. Still, if Dumbledore was right, and if she succeeded, Marietta would never be scarred, because the DA would never be formed.

She told herself that the twinge of regret she felt about this was meaningless, but it wasn’t quite true: during her time at Hogwarts her life had revolved around her books, her classes, and her friends; she did not like to think of them growing up without her. 

She did not like the thought of a future without them, either, but her desires were irrelevant. Her own dreams had to be sacrificed, for the good of so many others. The greater good, Dumbledore might have called it, once. 

“That’s them, I take it?” she said, to distract herself.

“Yes, my brother,” Regulus said, almost spitting the words out, “and his friends. The one with the hair of a mop is Potter, Lupin is one not smiling anymore, and Peter Pettigrew, the one you forgot, is the short one.”

“He’s not your brother anymore,” said Snape, and it took a moment for her to realise that the look on his face was a smile, so unused was she to seeing him wear that particular expression. 

Regulus gave him a stiff nod. “I know,” he said curtly, glowering. 

“Does this happen often?” Hermione asked, for she did not intend to be caught out again if she could help it.

“Do you mean at dinner or at all?” Camelia asked, then proceeded as though Hermione had answered. “Lunch is usually safe, there’s not that much of an audience. It’s more often dinner than breakfast, because some people prefer to sleep in, partially to avoid such incidents – except on the first day, when we get schedules, and so attendance is compulsory.” She looked over at Hermione’s face, and whatever she saw there made her reach other to pat Hermione’s hand. “We can sometimes guard against it; they never get us the same way twice.” She hesitated, “well, when it’s what they consider a prank, and this was more childish than most. But when they come out of nowhere and attack you in the corridors or outside there’s not necessarily anything you can do.”

“They charmed the individual plates,” Snape said. “The food on the serving plates was not affected. Next time, check for interference.”

“I did,” Regulus protested.

Snape looked at him in disgust, as though being unsuccessful was worse than not even making an attempt. “Use a more effective charm, Black.” 

“Stick with us for a while,” Camelia suggested, “but you might be safe anyway. Dumbledore is quite lenient with them; they won’t want to anger him by targeting you.”

“So he knows?”

Snape snapped, “Everybody knows.”

“We’re not the House that’s fondest of the Headmaster,” said Regulus, shooting Snape a look. “No offense intended.”

Hermione nodded, and made herself smile at them, for she had grown used to Gryffindor, which had almost worshipped Dumbledore, and it was extremely jarring to think even slightly fondly of those who didn’t. But she could not afford to make enemies of these people, whom she may need, and who had, after all, been kind to her despite their opinions. 

The thought that they wouldn’t be if they knew her real parentage came unbidden, and she tried to push it away. It was not her real parentage anymore, and what she was sure would be termed her ‘blood traitor views’ could be explained on her pretend family, who were dead, and Dumbledore, who would not be easily harmed, rather than personal interests.

It was safer that way. 

Still, she could not avoid the feeling that she was repudiating her parents by doing so. Her mother, with her fierce activism, who would have hated to see her daughter pretend to be anything she was not, and her father, with his rosary wrapped around his fingers, and his stories of lies and the crow, and another Peter the traitor. 

Hermione Granger had been called pragmatic from almost the moment she could converse properly; she had never considered that it might be a bad thing until she had raised her wand at her parents and mouthed the words. 

“All the same,” she said, “please don’t speak too badly about him in my presence.” Almost as soon as she had spoken, she regretted it. By silencing such comments, she would be denying herself a way of identifying possible Death Eater recruits, since someone who spoke favourably of Dumbledore was hardly likely to join Voldemort. 

Camelia huffed. “What kind of people have you been spending time with? Of course not!”

“Gryffindors, most likely,” said Regulus. “They would.”

Hermione did not answer, for she could not deny it, and yet the private tutoring group she was meant to have attended would have been too small for a divisive system. Thankfully, she was spared from answering by the appearance of the desserts, though she noted that they did not distract the Slytherins as much as they had many of the Gryffindors, particularly Ron.

She smiled at the reminder, and did not let herself think of the last time she had seen Ron. It was far better, since if she succeeded then those events would never have happened, not to dwell on it. 

Between mouthfuls, she said, “What are the teachers like? During lessons, I mean. Obviously, I’ve met them all, but the Headmaster, naturally, didn’t tell me about them, only a little about the curriculum, so that I could catch up if I had any gaps.”

“Do you call him the Headmaster, then?” Regulus asked. “Not ‘dearest Uncle’ or anything equally cloying? He seems the type to go in for things like that.”

Hermione looked at him, and lied. “I used to call him the Professor. But that would surely get rather confusing here, so I’m trying out different ways of referring to him in absentia – I call him Uncle to his face naturally. But I don’t want people to think that I’m constantly pushing the connection.”

“And that,” said Camelia happily, licking her spoon, “is exactly why you’re not in Gryffindor.”

Hermione looked over at her sceptically, for Harry had never much liked being the Boy-Who-Lived. “Really?”

“Insufferable show-offs,” Snape hissed.

As he spoke, Hermione saw that some students were rising to their feet, first years from their average size. She was just wondering whether to follow them when Regulus shook her head. “We’ll show you around.”

“Dumbledore would have done, surely?” Camelia said, turning to her.

“A bit, certainly. But the stairs move, so it may take a few days for me to be sure of my way around.” Or rather, it would have done if she hadn’t attended Hogwarts for six years. A part of her couldn’t wait for classes, where she wouldn’t have to downplay her knowledge to avoid suspicion. Who, after all, would be surprised by intelligence in Dumbledore’s relatives?

“Average time for first years is between two weeks and a month,” said Snape, a hint of challenge in his dark eyes. “It took me a week.”

Hermione smiled at him. “I have a good memory.”

They walked then through the Great Hall, with Hermione being the only one of them to look anywhere other than straight ahead, until they reached the doors. Then they made their way down to the Slytherin common room, retracing the steps Hermione and her friends had walked to Potions class so many times. 

Eventually, after walking through what seemed like a labyrinth to Hermione, so used to the easily accessible Gryffindor common room, they reached a wall, in front of which stood a stocky dark skinned girl. When she saw them, she turned and whispered something to the stone wall behind her, which opened to reveal the entrance to the common room. 

Regulus nodded at her as they passed, and after they had done so, said, “Rishika Patil. 6th year prefect. That’s my year.” Then, lifting his eyes to Hermione’s face, added, “We used to date. Not anymore.”

Hermione, somewhat puzzled as to why he was making such a point of it, did not reply. 

The room they entered was long, and rather different from the Gryffindor common room, which had been round and cluttered. But both were decorated in the house colours, with a large mantelpiece on one side and carved chairs, although these were currently mostly set in one corner, where the first years was listening to an older boy talk.

“You can’t open the windows,” said Camelia, indicating the other side of the room.

“I should consider that obvious, Parkinson,” said Snape, who gave Hermione a brisk nod and walked away. Privately, Hermione rather agreed with him, for through the window could be seen the water of the lake, though as it was late evening, no creatures or plants could be easily seen. 

“Don’t mind him,” said Regulus. “He had an unpleasant encounter with _them_ on the train.”

“It can get rather stuffy in here,” Camelia admitted, sitting down. “But sometimes you can see the Giant Squid really close. Closer than Evans has, at any rate, which makes her comments somewhat unjust.” She smirked, and Hermione was uncomfortably reminded of Pansy Parkinson, who was otherwise not visible in the girl’s face, though she had to be a relation: a niece, perhaps?

“Oh, I’m not so sure. I find the squid to be infinitely preferable to Potter,” said Regulus, sinking down into a nearby armchair. “I claim this one.”

“What are you talking about?”

Regulus frowned up at her. “Why, that I intend to sit here this year, of course.”

Camelia sighed. “We’ve been through this. You can’t monopolise chairs. The common room doesn’t belong to you,” and turning to Hermione, she added, “He tries this every year.”

“I meant about the squid,” Hermione said.

Camelia laughed. “Sometimes when Potter asks Evans out – which he does incessantly and to no avail – she proclaims that she would rather date the Squid. But she’s a Gryffindor, and they live in a tower, so I’m not sure if she’s ever even seen the squid.”

Hermione frowned, for in Harry’s photographs, Lily and James had always appeared very much in love, and while she was willing to believe that they might have previously disliked each other, this was their final year at Hogwarts. Since Harry had been born almost a year after her, this left Lily about two years in which to fall so much for James that she would agree to marry him. From her companions’ comments, Hermione didn’t think it likely. 

Camelia stood up. “Come on, I’ll show you to our rooms. Oh, and I almost forgot. The new password gets listed on that message board there every fortnight,” she said, pointing.

That, at least, was familiar, though Hermione dreaded to think what sort of words they might be. Gryffindor’s had been mostly whimsical, but due to her mistake, the Polyjuice incident had stuck very firmly in her head. To constantly have to say _pure-blood_ , the code for entry to the home of bigots like Malfoy, though appropriate, was unsettling. But she knew she could not be the only one, for it was statistically impossible for every bigot to be sorted into one house, especially one renowned for its cunning – though also the one to which Crabbe and Goyle, who were neither, had belonged. 

Having said good night to Regulus, Hermione followed her, down more steps until they reached a little space it would been overly generous to describe as a room, with two passageways branching out into opposite direction. 

“The other side’s for the boys,” said Camelia, heading left. 

They walked to the end of the passageway to the door marked ‘Seventh Year’, which Hermione expected to lead to her new dormitory. Instead, she found herself in another room, with three doors. At one side, the cases with the belongings of the students had been placed. 

“We sleep two to a room rather than in dormitories like the other houses,” said Camelia, and smiled at her, and indicated one. “Shall we?”

Hermione saw no reason to disagree, and so they picked up their belongings and entered one. 

It was very green and smaller than the dormitories she was used to or the room she had slept in recently, but there was room enough for two large four-poster beds, a wardrobe and a large desk. There was also a little window, but one glance at it told Hermione that she would not be airing the room any time soon. 

As they had both been up early, Camelia because of the train and Hermione because she was conscious that the error had left her with much less time than intended, it did not take long for them to wash and go to bed. But though it did not take long for Camelia to fall asleep, Hermione tossed and turned, sleepless, long after she had heard her companion’s breathing even out. The sound of swishing water outside disturbed her, but when she had cast a silencing charm, the unnatural stillness distressed her even more. 

She kept taking her wand out from under her pillow to use its light to check the time, but still it seemed as though sleep would never come and the night would never end. 

Eventually, Hermione gave up and reached for a book, which usually helped, but she found instead that her mind was too troubled to concentrate, and that her eyelids were heavy and drooping. But when she once again tried to sleep, she was unsuccessful.

She got up then, wincing when her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, and made her way over to the window. The water was dark like the sea at storm, but in spite of this, Hermione could see occasional ripples of movement.

Sybil Trelawney would have deemed this night an ill omen, prophesied Hermione’s failure and her doom. But Hermione Granger had not believed in fortune-telling since she was a child asking to have her fortune read at a local fair. Her father, used to dealing with his determined daughter, had not refused. Instead, he had simply handed her a book on the techniques employed and after she had devoured it, so eagerly at first and then with much disappointment, had asked if she was still so desperate.

But still, Hermione had had some hope for wizarding Divination, the frenzied words that had doomed the Potters, but it had let her down just the same, and with her, her friends, Dumbledore, and all those who had trusted in the prophesy. 

She did not know how long she stood there, not quite thinking, only that when she at last made her way to bed again and drifted off, it was closer to morning than evening.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what subjects are you taking?” said Regulus the next morning, sliding into a seat on the other side of the table.

Hermione marked her page with a spare sheet of parchment, and rattled them off on her fingers, “Transfiguration, Defence, Herbology, Charms, Arithmancy, Potions, Ancient Runes, and History of Magic.”

She had not done the last previously, but Dumbledore had insisted that it would seem extremely odd for his grand—niece to not do so, considering the role he had played in many of the more recent events, and moreover that it might prove helpful for her mission.

He blinked, then burst into laughter. “You’re hardly making it easy for yourself; you do know that they’re harder than O.W.L.s?”

“O.W.L.s weren’t hard!” she insisted, though if that had been entirely true, she wouldn’t have failed in Defence against the Dark Arts. Anything short of the best, after all, was failure. “And you?”

“No Herbology or History, and Care of Magical Creatures instead of Potions. Most people do five!” He added, defensively. 

“Largely because he was terrible at Potions,” came a voice from behind them, and Hermione turned to see Rishika Patil, the prefect she had seen the night before. In her hand was a stack of parchments, one of which she took out and gave to Hermione with a smile. 

“This is yours,” she said, then looked back down at what was now the top parchment. “Have you two seen Mulciber?” 

Regulus shook his head. There was a dull flush across his face. 

She sighed. “What about Rosier? He really ought to be doing this too,” and turning to Hermione, said, “he’s Seventh Year prefect.” 

Another Death Eater, Hermione realised, and ran her eyes over the table. The Slytherins, of whom there were fewer than the previous evening, it still being early morning, were eating breakfast, in a quieter fashion than the Gryffindor table, from which the occasional non-sequitur shout could be heard. How many of those, the majority of whom were still very young, in body and experience, would go on to kill and torture others for their heritage? 

She was not sure that she wanted to hear the answer. 

But Regulus only shrugged, and said, “Probably still abed.” Then, turning to Hermione, he added quietly, “he expected to be made Head Boy, and being passed over for Potter, who wasn’t even a Prefect, very much rankled him.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, for lack of anything else, and looked down at the parchment she had been given. The fact that it turned out to be her schedule for the year surprised her, for she had grown used to seeing Professor McGonagall hand them out. One glance at the High Table, where Slughorn was visibly enjoying his breakfast, and she wondered how she could ever have expected it. Clearly, this was just one more thing which was done differently in Slytherin. 

“He shouldn’t have been surprised,” said Snape darkly, sitting down on the bench next to Regulus. “A disproportionate number of Heads have hailed from Gryffindor. They are, after all, chosen by Dumbledore and McGonagall.” 

Hermione considered this. It was certainly true that in her own time she could only recall two Heads, the girl in her first year, and the boy in her fourth, who had been Slytherins, and then without any doubt the two last year. That meant only four out of a possible fourteen, and though she had not done proper maths since her primary school days, she knew that to be roughly the expected quarter. 

Still, she was aware that it was not entirely fair to count the last two, since they would have been appointed by Snape – and how strange to think of the ways adult Snape had protected his students, even while his every move had been observed by the Carrows and ultimately Voldemort himself – which left only two out of a possible twelve for the years she had been at school. 

But surely, that was only due to the candidates themselves? The students of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff must simply have been more suited to the task in those other years. 

“It was hardly an impossible hope. Malfoy was Head Boy, and that girl your first year.”

Hermione blinked, wondering how he could possibly have known that, but when she looked up, he was, of course, talking to Snape. 

It felt odd to sit here like this, on the wrong side of the hall, opposite men who she was accustomed to think of as dead. But she tried to push the thought away, for that would have to be her life now. 

Snape himself was leaning forward on one elbow, his robe slightly frayed. “His father and future father-in-law are Governors here. I expect they’ll get you the position too.” The tone of his voice would have made many a first-year cower.

Next to him, Regulus Black had gone pale, and there was a terrible stiffness to his posture, as though he had been petrified. He reached out to Snape, but caught himself halfway and drew his hand back, laying it very carefully on the table. 

Finally, he said, “Perhaps.” 

It was then that Camelia came in, her smile wavering as she looked between them. But she didn’t say anything as she reached over for the toast. 

“Is Evan up?” Regulus asked, and she looked at him coldly. There was a mark forming at the bottom of her throat, just above her collar.

“I have no idea why you think I would know that, Black,” she said, and told Hermione to pass the jam, giving her a sideways look as she received it. “Another one who reads at breakfast?” 

Hermione smiled. “Whenever I can. Another?”

“I have not had time to go to the library yet. What is it?” Snape said. 

She did not need to look to tell him, “Kallinikos’ _Developments in Incendiary Magic_.” It had been recommended by Dumbledore as being the most instructive on Fiendfyre excepting classified articles whose distribution was too tightly controlled by the Ministry. Some things remained constant, Hermione thought¸ regardless of the time period, and one of those was the fact that the Ministry of Magic would never be especially helpful. 

“And your impressions of it are?” he asked, tilting forward. There were shadows under his eyes, as though, like Hermione, he had not slept very well. He had not eaten anything.

“The author is exceedingly prolix and arrogant, but it’s quite interesting nevertheless.” In truth, it was not an easy read, but Hermione would never admit that aloud. 

“He invented fire that would burn in water,” said Regulus. “I think he has a right to be somewhat arrogant.”

“He didn’t!” Hermione protested. “It’s just a pen-name; the real Kallinikos was a muggle and lived over a thousand years ago. Besides, James Riddick Partington says that Greek fire was most likely invented by a group of chemists working in Constantinople. The main source supporting the Kallinikos theory is Theophanes, who isn’t particularly reliable, and even contradicts himself, for he says that the fire was used before Kallinikos arrived in Constantinople.” 

There was a momentary silence. 

“The chemists were the wizards, then?” Camelia finally suggested. “Muggles wouldn’t have been able to invent something that useful.”

Hermione dug her nails into the palm of one hand, hoping that the pain would distract and calm her. _Slytherin_ , she thought, _and a Parkinson_. She couldn’t have been expected to know any better; the conservative wizarding world, after all, did not like to be challenged or proven wrong.

When she answered, she made sure that her voice was as calm as she could make it, “Muggles invented many of the things we use. The Knight Bus was modelled on public transport used in contemporary Muggle London.” Seeing that she was about to be interrupted, she held up a hand, “It was commissioned in 1865, but the French muggles had public transport in 1662.”

“That one was driven by horses, Granger,” said Snape. “Steam buses like the original Knight Bus were first pioneered in the 1830s.”

“Well, of course you’d agree, Snape,” said Camelia, shooting him a dark look. “But I was speaking in hyperbole; I’m willing to admit that muggles have been of some use in the past, though mostly among the Romans where their efforts were supplemented by our skills, but that’s rather meaningless when one considers what harm they’re doing now. Besides,” she added, tossing her hair, and smiling pointedly, “only Squibs and paupers use the Knight Bus.”

“’The harm they’re doing now’?” Hermione repeated. 

“Oh, you know,” she shrugged, “They spill oil and pollute our lands, the water we drink and the very air we breathe. A hundred years ago, something they called cholera nearly wiped out Diagon Alley and the surrounding area. The headmistress here, Eupraxia Mole nearly died as a child, and without her, Peeves would still be throwing weapons at us all! Is Dumbledore too fond of them to have told you?”

Hermione blinked, and to save herself from answering, poured herself some tea and stirred in the sugar thoughtfully. It was the first time she had come across anti-muggle rhetoric that was based on something over than mindless bigotry, and it threw her off her guard. Finally, she said, “They died too. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Intent changes nothing. They didn’t care until it started affecting their ruling classes.”

“How much you have in common with them, Parkinson,” Snape said dryly. 

She thought then of her mother, who had campaigned and signed petitions, and complained very loudly and very often about the many injustices in the world, and who had to be out there now, in the practice, and sparing not a thought for the daughter she did not have. 

“Most of them aren’t anything like that,” she said instead, feeling out of her depth for the first time in years, for she did not know more than the basics about the cholera pandemics, and even less about their effects on the wizarding world. Partially because of her friendship with Harry, Hermione had generally focused more on spells and theoretical magic than history, as these were more likely to be able to save her life. 

She hesitated before carrying on, “I used to live next to a muggle couple, who campaigned to raise people’s awareness of such issues.” Though she could no longer call them her parents publicly, there was no reason why she could not refer to them in conversation, as muggles she had known who had been responsible citizens and excellent people. Admittedly, it was dangerous, but her supposed relationship to Dumbledore had already made it dubious that she would join Voldemort, and being known as an unlikely recruit might be safer. 

But she was not here for her own safety; Hermione would have to put herself in danger soon enough. 

“Most muggles are concerned, but the status quo is considered beneficial by many rich and influential people – the muggle world’s pureblood families, if you like – who generate income that way. Since the governments benefit from such people’s aid and co-operation, many politicians are reluctant to get involved.” It was an incredibly simplified explanation: the Earth Days had, after all, been started by a Senator, but Hermione’s awareness of normal politics had been compiled using her parents’ conversation and the News. 

“You mean that the muggles are so incompetent that they cannot even govern themselves?” Camelia asked, something akin to a smirk beginning to form on her face.

Snape somehow managed to make a laugh sound disparaging. “Look to our glorious Ministry.”

“Let he who is without sin,” Hermione murmured, though she had never been a particular supporter of it. Having made mistakes, or done wrong did not negate the fact that others had committed worse or different crimes. 

“Yes?” said Regulus, who had been silent during their conversation, looking at her. Hermione was just about to explain, when she realised that he was not looking at her at all, but rather over her head, at something that was happening behind her back.

She turned around, and found herself on almost eye level with a Gryffindor tie. Its owner thrust an envelope at her and fled. 

Having opened it, she read, 

_Dear Hermione,_

_Kindly come along to my office after your lessons, which I have no doubt you will enjoy._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_P.S. I have recently found myself very partial to Sherbet Lemons._

Camelia leaned over to read it over her shoulder, her hair brushing Hermione’s cheek. She pulled back in puzzlement. “How does he expect you to get him Sherbet Lemons at such short notice? I suppose someone might have some you could borrow,” she said, already glancing along the table as if searching for a likely candidate.

Regulus said, “His lack of subtlety is astounding. No Slytherin would dream of soliciting bribes so obviously.”

No Gryffindor would have jumped to this conclusion, not regarding Dumbledore. Hermione laughed, and folded the letter, sliding it into her bag. “He’s not. It’s the password to his office.”

They did not appear mollified. 

“And he just wrote it down, and had a first year deliver it? Without any sealing spells or other precautions? It’s as though he were welcoming intruders.”

“Try to be sensible, Black. No student here would possess the necessary abilities to be able to fight and defeat Dumbledore, especially not in his office.” said Snape. 

Hermione thought of that day on the tower, when Malfoy had disarmed Dumbledore. Suddenly it seemed like a terrible risk to take, to hold the Elder Wand and lead so public a life. 

She did not want to dwell on it, so she stood up, brushed a few stray crumbs off her robes, and announced that she was going to pick up the books she needed for her lessons.

Regulus looked extremely dubious. “For History of Magic? There’s no chance that Binns will notice that you don’t have it – or that he’ll notice anything his students do short of blow up the classroom. And you have a free afterwards, which makes it essentially a double free – most students use History as a way to catch up on homework or sleep.”

“But that’s exactly why I’ll need my books!” Hermione protested. “If I’m not going to learn anything from the teacher then I’ll simply have to teach myself. There’s no point leaving it until right before exams, when I’ll have so many other things to revise.”

“As you like. I’ve got to stay here, get my schedule sorted. Although,” he said, looking at the staff table, where Slughorn was conversing cheerfully with a woman Hermione didn’t recognise, “that might take a while.”

“I’ll come with you!” said Camelia, almost leaping up.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Hermione tried to insist, for if she allowed them to always be with her now, she would have a very hard time getting to be alone when she needed it. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” Regulus said, in a tone she had come to associate with entitled purebloods, “it’s safer.” 

“I’m perfectly able to defend myself,” said Hermione frostily, for she had been in situations they couldn’t even imagine, and yet they were treating her as though she were incapable. 

“All the same, I’ve got a few things to pick up as well,” said Camelia, but it didn’t seem like the truth, not to Hermione, who had fought in a war where every lie could mean betrayal and death, or worse. 

But she didn’t know whether she was just being too sensitive, for her point of reference for normality had shifted long ago, back when she had first heard of Hogwarts perhaps, and when she had been attacked by the Troll, and again when Voldemort had risen. 

She forced herself to smile, for it was her first proper day, and she couldn’t afford to make enemies so quickly, not when she was certain to gain them simply by fulfilling her duty. “All right then.”

They made it down to the dungeons and back up to their separate lessons without incident, though Hermione noticed that Camelia steered all conversation away from anything which could possibly involve muggles or politics.

Despite her words, upon arriving in the classroom, she did not start taking notes from the book or further research. Realising that it might be some time before she would have a considerable amount of time to herself – for the library was bound to be frequented by others, whose presence might be dangerous – Hermione instead decided to consider her future plan of action.

To that end, she chose the last desk to one side of the room, ensuring that no one would be able to read over her shoulder. Hermione need not have bothered: there were only three other students in the room. The two she did not know sat on the opposite side, leaving Lily Evans in the middle.

This state of affairs gave Hermione a good vantage point, and from her seat she could see a little more of Lily than she had the previous evening. Even without the relation to Harry to encourage her, she seemed like someone Hermione would nonetheless have been interested in befriending, for her quill flew across her parchment readily when Professor Binns began his lecture, and though after a while she rested her head on one hand, her elbow resting on the desk, she did not cease writing. 

Still, realising that she had only four years until that girl’s death on that fateful Halloween night was a sobering thought. Sufficiently distracted from the subject, she turned to her parchment, and began to consider.

It was surely more important to destroy the Horcruxes than mounting any offensive against Voldemort: the latter, after all, would not eliminate the threat he posed, only reduce his followers, in the words of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, _scorch the snake, not kill it._

The problem was that she had no way of knowing the location of some of the Horcruxes, nor even if they already existed. This, no doubt, was what Dumbledore would wish to discuss.

Still, she was trying very hard to be optimistic. She was alive, and they knew of the Horcruxes, knew what objects Voldemort had or would choose. There were four years left; they were, overall, in a better situation than they had been when Voldemort had risen for the second time.

“ – in the morning mounted an offensive attack led by –”

Binns’ voice, remembered well from her earlier years at Hogwarts, was almost soothing. The familiarity of it gave Hermione the impression that were she just to turn, she would see Harry and Ron, already half-asleep, or Neville searching frantically through his bag for something he had forgotten, or perhaps Lavender and Parvati trying to stifle their giggles in the corner.

But she knew it to be merely an illusion, for they were all dead in her time, and in this one none of them yet existed. 

“ – was greedily ambitious, and so longed to possess it himself, for among the goblins such things confer great status – ”

She tried then, to concentrate on the lesson, but her mind seemed determined otherwise. 

Certainly, several of the Horcruxes would have been already made, for Voldemort would not have risked making his existence public if it endangered his life, of that she was sure. But the locations Hermione knew were only those of the future, and she had no way of knowing when they had ended up there. Her only consolation in this was the certainty that Nagini was not yet with Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy had been most insistent on the fact. 

“ – which had been sold to Cassius Malfoy – ”

This caught Hermione’s attention. Her head snapped up, and, with her left hand, she opened her textbook clumsily and searched for the relevant page. It did not take her long to find it, but longer to process it. 

She was aware, of course, that wizarding history tended to gloss over the harm that had been done to other races: she had told as much to Harry at Shell Cottage. But she had not before come across any account which she knew absolutely to be wrong.

The book said that the rebels had wanted to steal the goblin-made treasures from its owner, who had inherited it. But before the World Cup, when the conversation had turned to his work and she had asked to know more about the goblins he worked with, Bill had been particularly insistent that the laws relating to possession of purchased goods differed greatly from that of wizards. The example he had given involved this particular incident, and he had explained the reasons behind the goblins’ dissatisfaction, and that it had not been the Malfoys’ who had been robbed, but rather the goblins themselves.

Admittedly, part of his insistence, as he himself had sheepishly admitted, stemmed from the long conflict between the Weasleys and the Malfoys, but nevertheless he felt the goblins to be in the right in this instance, especially since Cassius Malfoy had allegedly not paid the full price he had promised to the goblins. 

But the book in front of her did not mention this. Indeed, as she flicked ahead and then further on throughout the book, there was no mention of any other perspectives. 

This distressed her immensely, for, as a child, Hermione had had absolute faith in her books and her teachers, who seemed somehow not quite so fully human, and therefore less fallible, than her own parents. She could not pinpoint when it had happened, but somewhere along the line, she had lost that faith. 

Perhaps this was what growing up meant: finding out that no truth was absolute. 

Hermione was therefore very apprehensive to note that one of the later chapters was about house-elves. She was just debating whether to begin reading it now, and be forced to stop midway and most likely angry, or to delay and have more time to think about it, when the lesson ended. 

She was glad not to be set any homework, then cross with herself for feeling so, for her past self would have lamented it. But now, when she had Horcruxes to take care of, and people to prevent from joining the wrong side – people whose loyalties she had to figure out first –, and an murderous Dark Lord and his followers to defeat, she had to admit to being somewhat relieved for the extra time, especially since she was sure to get work from other subjects.

Nevertheless, it seemed like a betrayal of the girl she had been all her life. But being able to write an essay twice the assigned size would not save her life.

As she packed up her things, she saw, to her surprise, Lily Evans coming towards her. 

It was the first time Hermione had seen her from the front apart from photographs. She was pretty, but it was the brightness of her smile and the intense colour of her eyes – Harry’s eyes – that drew the eye. 

She held out her hand. “I’m Lily Evans, the Head Girl.”

Hermione shook hands with her. “Hermione Granger. I’ve heard about you; you’re one of the best students in the year.”

Lily blushed. “I try. I need all the advantages I can get, I’m muggle-born, you know.” She said it in a deliberately casual voice, but Hermione caught her side-glance. 

”Some people can be awfully prejudiced,” she said, and it was not until Lily visibly exhaled that Hermione realised how tense she had been. 

She realised then that she had halted in her packing and resumed it, rolling up her scrolls of parchment.

“Yes, it still surprises me sometimes. The first magical person I ever knew had assured me that it didn’t matter when I first asked, and he seemed so well informed – he told me so much about Hogwarts and the wizarding world – that I believed him completely. It was quite a shock to come here, and realise,” she trailed off. “Though Gryffindor on the whole is quite good about it.”

“It’s Slytherin that isn’t, am I right?” Hermione said softly.

Lily cast a quick glance at the house crest on Hermione’s robes, and nodded.

Perhaps Lily, as Head Girl and someone who had known them for the past seven years, might know more. Still, it would seem suspicious if Hermione asked too much. “Surely not all of them though? The ones I’ve met seemed perfectly civil – although the issue didn’t come up.”

“Lucky you, some of us can’t escape it,” said Lily bitterly, and sighed. “I used to be – not all the Slytherins are bad, certainly. Of course, it’s impossible for a quarter of the population – a quarter of eleven-year-olds! – to be so. But some certainly are, Mulciber and Avery attacked Mary. I don’t suppose you’ve met them?”

“No. Not yet anyway.” And although she could have found her way there in her sleep, she thought it might be a good way to get to know Lily, so she said, “Could you point me in the direction of the library? The stairs keep changing and I’d rather not get lost on my first day.” 

“Of course,” said Lily with a smile. “In fact, I’ll come with you, we’re not allowed to take books home over the holidays, and I’ve read all the books I currently have, so I should stock up on reading material.” 

Hermione smiled, and fell into step beside her. “Oh, what have you read recently?”

Lily seemed more and more like someone she would have been friends with even in her own time, and Hermione felt herself relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.


	3. Chapter 3

Having spent a pleasant free period in the library, Hermione pretending to have forgotten the titles and authors of books yet unpublished when discussing the information they had contained, they made their way to another shared class, Defence against the Dark Arts.

As they walked along, Lily said, "You don't have to answer, of course, but what have you hear about me?"

"Other than the facts already established? That you were a Prefect and that James Potter constantly asks you out, but you don't like him, and have previously indicated that even marine creatures would be vastly preferable," she rattled off, listing them on her fingers.

Lily laughed. "The Giant Squid! Yes, I don't know if you're aware, but the first years come across by boats across the Black Lake. I was rather interested in all the creatures and plants which I could see below the surface, and –" she shrugged. "I fell in. The squid rescued me. But even without that, he'd still be preferable to Potter. Actually, I don't know the squid's gender, it could well be a she… Most people are preferable to Potter."

"Does he know that?"

"No, he has a tremendous ego. I think a wall might have accepted that I just want him to leave me alone by now, but he just carries on doing it!" She shook her head as if to clear it, and forced a smile. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you this. He "pranked"," she wagged her fingers to produce ersatz quotes, "the common room this morning, it's probably a carry-over from that."

"Oh, I don't mind." Hermione insisted, though she was troubled. Harry would be born in only three years time, but how could Lily have changed her mind so completely about James in so short a time? From the little Harry had told her, she had known that they had not always gotten along, but surely, by their final year –

"Everyone else knows these things, and takes that knowledge for granted, so I feel terribly uninformed," she said, for it would make a convenient screen. But if she were to be honest, which was impossible now, she knew things which had happened and were happening and would happen, and few of them were necessarily true.

Harry's father had emerged as a good man from his remaining friends' stories, despite Snape's obvious deprecation. But now he was beginning to sound like someone Hermione would not particularly like, and she was growing uncertain that she would enjoy meeting him.

And yet he had been part of the Order, had fought Voldemort and the Death Eaters, had been a Gryffindor, the house which still retained her loyalty, and which she could not bring herself to distrust. He ought to be someone she could like, someone who would be on her side.

But these things had not yet happened, might perhaps never occur.

Even so, Hermione reminded herself, the people she had spoken to about him were hardly unbiased. Slytherins, after all, would hardly like a blood-traitor, and after all, he did usually focus his pranking on them. That did not have to make him a bad person. Fred and George Weasley hadn't been, though she was sure that the Death Eaters would have disagreed – that Montague, who only done what was essentially the duty of a prefect, would disagree.

She couldn't entirely blame him, for that incident had given Draco Malfoy an idea.

But this was a Hogwarts which did not remember hosting such battle. No one else here had walked through the Great Hall and looked down at the faces of the dead, the dead who in her nightmares rose again and talked in their half-remembered voices of the Order's mistakes.

And as she walked down the corridor, it seemed strange to Hermione to see people laughing so carelessly, leaning across to kiss each other, or yelling at their friends to hurry lest they be late.

They were still children, to an extent she had not been since her first year. There was nothing in this Hogwarts to kill them or their friends, no corridors barred with warnings of painful deaths. The world outside may have been darkening, but their school was safe.

In her time, such complacency had gotten people killed, but here, here, this was normal.

This was not her Hogwarts, and these people not her peers, despite her robes, with the timetable tucked into one deep pocket, alongside the letter from the Headmaster.

Hermione was the anomaly again, not for her books and her energy, but for her instincts and her caution, and the terrors that plagued her each night and sometimes trailed her into the waking world.

"Hey, Evans!" somebody called, and Hermione looked up, and her breath caught. She stepped forward without being aware of it, her mouth already curling around his name, and about to reach out to touch him, to embrace him and hold him with her, for however little time they had. Then, of course, she remembered that it could not be Harry, and felt her cheeks heat up, hoping that nobody had noticed.

To her relief, the anonymous students in the corridor had not stopped, and James Potter had eyes only for Lily.

She felt safe then, to examine him more closely. He was a little taller than Harry had been, but the shape of his head was the same, and the features equally familiar: the thin nose and lips, the high forehead. But to her eyes, his face appeared wrong, as though someone had attempted to paint Harry after only one brief look from afar. The eyes, of course, were different, and there had been a certain fierceness exuding from Harry that James lacked.

"Come to Hogsmeade with me," he said, and ran a hand through his hair. It made it stick up in odd directions, messier than Harry's usually was, and next to Hermione, Lily Evans scowled.

"Toerag, I didn't know that you've always been like this, I'd escort you to the Infirmary personally; you've clearly been hit by a Bludger far too many times. As it is, if you keep annoying me, I'll make sure you end up there again. For what I greatly hope will be the final time, no!" And she grabbed Hermione by the arm and tugged her forwards, leaving James calling after them.

"Sorry about that," Lily said after they had advanced a few steps, letting go of Hermione, though her walk didn't slow. "He keeps asking me out, it's highly irritating."

"I suppose if he thinks you've changed your mind?"

Lily laughed, but there was no hint of humour in it, nothing like the way she had looked at the Gryffindor table the previous evening, tossing her head back in joy. "It's far too often for that. He struts down the corridor and hexes people randomly, and apparently I'm supposed not to care – to admire him for it even!"

There was something odd in her voice, as though she were trying very hard to prevent it from cracking. Looking over, Hermione saw that her hands and jaw were clenched.

"Surely the professors…"

"Oh, they're not usually so dumb as to do it in front of them, and even when they're caught, all they get is a few detentions. They couldn't care less about that; in fact, they see it as a mark of honour to have the annual record." She sighed, and added, "Remus and Peter are all right, when they're away from Potter and Black, that is."

So the boy who would one day betray her was considered preferable to the one she would one day marry. It didn't make sense.

Hermione was aware, of course, that people changed, for if Wormtail had shown himself to be untrustworthy in all the years they had known him, Lily and James would hardly have entrusted him with their safety. But she could not understand how they would progress from Lily's apparent animosity to being happily married. What could have happened in that time?

As a child, one of Hermione's secret joys had been time travel fiction, despite much of it being of dubious quality. Her parents were still fond of retelling how she had badgered them into purchasing all three of the Back to the Future videos merely a week after her birthday.

She was perfectly aware that things might – would have to – change.

But this was not something that she had caused, and so it disorientated her. James Potter, after all, had not taken one look at her and changed his mind about Lily. That was the sort of thing that happened only in mediocre romances. They had not even exchanged a word.

Remus had claimed that James had changed in their last year. And he was, as she now recalled, Head Boy now. Perhaps that added responsibility had matured him into the man who would have defied Voldemort thrice and died protecting his family – though she hoped such actions would not be necessarily in this future.

Surely Dumbledore had seen something in him to choose him for one of the Heads, despite the lack of the Prefect's Badge, even before Hermione had arrived.

Still, Lily's reaction seemed a little extreme. All James had done was ask her out…

And for a minute she made herself contemplate someone she disliked so pursuing her, but she had no real point of reference. The only comparisons she could contemplate were Malfoy, but she had been given no indication that James Potter had ever verbally abused Lily because of her family, or Cormac McLaggen, who had quickly become clingy at Slughorn's party, but Hermione had, after all, been the one to invite him there, if only to spite Ron.

Since it could be useful to her, she asked, "Do you want to talk about it? You seem like you need to get it off your chest." It would not do, after all, to seem to interested in a girl she had only just met.

Lily nodded hesitantly. "Yes, but we hardly know each other."

"Sometimes that makes it easier." Worried that she was being too insistent, she hastily added, "but of course you don't have to tell me." Hermione hesitated.

Lily smiled, barely, and said only, "Perhaps some other time. Let's talk about something else. Do you know anything about muggles?" Her tone suggested it was a little unlikely.

Hermione felt a smile stretch helplessly across her own face, and swallowed hard several times to keep from laughing aloud, for to ask her that, the most notorious and hunted muggleborn alive, was ludicrous. "Oh, yes," she said, very deliberately, forming the words very carefully, for it would not do to let the mirth show, and hoping, still, that Lily would not choose to talk about past – now present – politics.

"And your views on them are?"

"That they should be judged on their own merits, not simply by their lack of magic. But surely I wouldn't be talking to you if I hated muggles?"

Lily shrugged. "Oh, plenty of the so called muggle-loving wizards tolerate muggleborns, but are terribly scornful of actual muggles, as though nothing were possible without magic. It's terribly lazy, I tend to think that's why they have so little," she stopped for a moment, "culture, I suppose, for lack of a better word. They have traditions, but little literature or music or art created merely for enjoyment. That's what I tend to miss most about home, other than my parents. I swear I spent at least a week in the holidays doing little more than listening to their vinyl records – mostly comprised of instrumentals or opera."

"Gilbert and Sullivan?" Hermione suggested, for her own father had rather liked them.

Lily made a face. "They got them as a gift, but they're hardly ever played. Their favourites change: this summer it was mostly Glinka and Mussorgsky, though it's probably others by now! Personally, I hate love at first sight as a narrative device, and Gilbert rather overuses it. But I am rather biased – it's what Potter claims."

"But there are so many things you can show in novels that are impossible in opera. He only has a limited amount of time in which to make things happen, though, unless all his characters were to fall in love off-screen, which might be dull. Besides, some do: Casilda and Luiz are already in love in Gondoliers, and Wilfred loves Phoebe in Yeomen of the Guard."

"But he only marries him because he knows about their pretence, and he'd been pestering her earlier. That's hardly love, it's like me marrying Potter."

For all Lily's professed disdain, Hermione thought, it all seemed to lead back to James Potter. She did not voice the thought. "I supposed few of the characters know each other enough to be really in love. At least he doesn't blackmail her."

"I considered it implied." Lily said, frowning a little. "It fit with the theme of self-sacrifice for others. But while I like Leonard Meryll's willingness to sacrifice himself in Yeoman as an ideal, I personally can't think of anybody I would be willing to purposely die for."

But she had done so, would do in only a few years, facing down the man widely considered to be the most evil and powerful dark wizard in recorded history and refusing to step aside. But then Lily Potter, part of the original Order, would have known how little a life she would have had, had she been spared by Voldemort.

Unaware of her companion's thoughts, Lily continued, "But the bit in Iolanthe when they pass all of Strephon's proposals as laws serves as an appallingly accurate portrayal of the wizarding world. It's largely controlled by the purebloods."

"It's largely controlled by Dumbledore!" said Camelia, coming up behind them. "Evans."

"Parkinson," said Lily stiffly.

Turning to Hermione, Camelia said, "Are the Gryffindors attempting to brainwash you already?"

"We're not the ones trying to brainwash anyone!"

Camelia looked over at her then, with much the same look she might have bestowed on a bug. Then she turned to Hermione, and something in her face softened. "This is the Defence classroom. You'll sit with Evan and me." And with that, she swept through the doorway, not bothering to look if Hermione was following.

"She's been kind to me," Hermione said in her wake, though whether by way of apology or excuse, she did not know.

"Yes." Lily nodded. "I suppose she would be," before she too went inside, and Hermione was left there alone in the corridor.

She noted with a little joy that it was the same room which had been used in her time, but when she had entered, she saw that the seat she had been accustomed to think of as hers was already occupied by a black girl she did not know. It was on the other side of the room, where once upon a time, Malfoy had sat with his cronies, that Camelia was sitting, next to a golden-haired boy who Hermione assumed was Evan Rosier.

They looked up as she approached, and moved up to make space for her. But they did not get much chance to talk, for after only a couple of minutes, the new Professor arrived. She was a tall Indian woman wearing burgundy robes with a matching al-amira, whose features reminded Hermione of a fox.

"Good morning," she said in a voice that carried. "As this is your final year, the year of your NEWTS, I will be working with the presumption that despite the quantity of your instructors, you are all at the expected standard. If you feel this to be otherwise," she looked across the room with a look that suggested that she expected many students to do so, "I would suggest that you take steps to rectify this, because if by Christmas I feel that you are not sufficiently competent, you will not be allowed to proceed with the course."

Her words were met with whispers across the room, barely hushed, but Professor Varma paid them no heed. "I will, of course, be available for guidance, though I would advise you that independent study skills will prove especially important to you this year. Any questions?"

"Are you related to the Patils?" James Potter called out. Some of the class turned around to look at him, Hermione included. He was lounging indolently in his chair and smirking, an ugly look that seemed to twist his features into Malfoy's, and in that moment he did not look much like Harry at all.

"Mr Potter, I presume," said Professor Varma, very coldly. "In this classroom, as in most, you are not to shout out until called on. Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn. My personal life is also not your concern; fifteen points from Gryffindor. And for your presumption that all Desis are the same, twenty-five points from Gryffindor."

Camelia and Rosier exchanged pleased looks, for Gryffindor had just lost forty-five points. There were grumbles from that side of the room, but none loud enough to be distinct.

"Now, any sensible questions related to the course? Miss ?" She indicated with a hand.

Lily, who had been called on, said, "Evans. I was just wondering about the tutoring component of the course?"

Varma nodded approvingly. "You will each be assigned a sixth-year to work with, and part of your result will depend on their success. As you hopefully know, the NEWT syllabus is different from the OWLS in that your final mark is not only dependant on your examinations, but also in your work throughout this year. Yes?"

"Smith. How is it fair that our marks depend on another student's work?"

"Mr Smith, in many careers you will at some point be called upon to instruct a fellow employee; you might as well have the practice. Regardless, your mark will not depend on their abilities following your instructions, but on their improvement. If you experience any problems with your pupil, please report it to me."

Several other questions followed, each thankfully relating to the actual subject, and it seemed to Hermione like no time at all had passed by the time the lesson was over, though it had only been a single. Despite this, she was much discomforted by the fact that they had not actually learned or practiced any spells in that time, as though this were a school and country free from any troubles and threats, merely worrying about their exams.

To some, she supposed that was true, but to her Voldemort loomed behind every shadow, and every little sliver of knowledge hidden in a footnote could be pose a barrier to upcoming death.

But at least this year, they were not to suffer an Umbridge, she thought, and had to fight down a chuckle she would not be able to explain. And for a moment, as the class streamed out into the sunlight, talking and laughing, Hermione let herself be caught up in it, the joy of the carefree in the warm wind, glad to be back at Hogwarts, to be back home.


End file.
